Graham Bower

In my gym, there are many guys with big muscles. They have consciously chosen to sculpt their bodies in this way. An act of will on their part has resulted in their bodies taking a particular form. Maybe they wanted bigger arms, so they worked on their triceps, deltoids and biceps. Maybe they wanted a six-pack, so they worked on their abs. Whatever their goals, they tailored their workout programme like a precise recipe to achieve the body shape they desired.

We don't always get to choose the shape of our bodies, of course. Sometimes people are born with bodies that are not as they would wish. Sometimes events that are outside of our control change our bodies against our will - like an accident or even violence.

But for the most part, I believe that we all choose the shape of our bodies, even if we don't consciously realise we're doing it. Every curve, every crevice, every blemish, every bulge. The shape of our body is the cumulative result of all the choices that we make in life. Our thoughts result in actions. Our actions result in consequences. These can be profound consequences to our body. They may lead to greater well being, or to disease. It's our choice.

As such, our bodies are physical manifestations of our thoughts. So we are all body builders. For the guys in my gym, their bodies are articulations of their dreams and desires. For others, their bodies might be articulations of fears, insecurities and doubts.

I used to cripple my own body with anxiety and stress - the sickness in my mind inevitably led to sickness in my body. It's all one system, after all. Now, as I've learned to take responsibility for my thoughts, I've taken control of my body. I choose to have a runner's physique. I have adapted my body to support me in the sport that I love.

As we realise that we are all body builders, we become conscious of our thoughts and take responsibility for our bodies. As we realise that we are already building our own bodies, we can consciously choose the direction that we wish to take.

What body have you chosen?

Graham liked to tell people that they were wrong.
This made Graham feel smart.

Graham used to tell religious people that there was no God.
Graham used to tell desperate people that their "alternative remedies" would not work.
Graham used to tell optimistic people that positive thinking is futile.
Graham used to tell trusting people that they were naive.

When Graham said that people were wrong, he was usually right.
But secretly, Graham used to cry himself to sleep at night.
Maybe Graham wasn't so smart after all.

I saw someone today who appeared to have a form of cerebral palsy. She had difficulty in walking, and yet she chose to wear high heel shoes. At first I thought that she was making a mistake - sacrificing mobility for vanity, and avoiding coming to terms with the reality of her condition.

But as I reflected upon her choice further, I came to realize that it was very inspiring. You could see from the clothes that she was wearing that she was interested in fashion. The fact that she chose to wear high heels, regardless of how much more this complicated her walking, was simply a sign of how important fashion was for her.

For some people, fashion is as easy as buying expensive clothes and thoughtlessly pulling them on every morning. For this woman, fashion was a great effort, but one that she found rewarding nonetheless. I don't think I've ever seen anyone putting more effort into their outfit.

She was providing the perfect model for how we can prevent disease from limiting us. How through bravery and courage we can live with disease and still pursue our dreams, inspiring others in the process.

In a more perfect world, she would be on the front cover of Vogue.

Here's a strange paradox. Admitting that you feel fear takes courage.

The other day, I was talking to a friend who reproached me for overdoing my training, arguing that I shouldn't be running seven days a week. I pointed out that it didn't seem to do Lance Armstrong any harm, to which my friend responded, "yes, but that's Lance Armstrong, he's a top athlete". The implication being that I'm not a top athlete and therefore I'm not capable of enduring such an arduous training regime.

Last week, I ran the Bath Half Marathon. It's the first big competitive race that I've ever run, and it represented the culmination of over a year's training, as I built up my fitness and stamina after coming off chemotherapy.

By a strange twist of fate, just days earlier, my doctors had discovered a new lump, and I was booked in for a scan the day after the run. So even as I was at my peak of physical fitness, I knew that I could be back on chemotherapy in a matter of days.

Before my cancer treatment, I had never been interested in sport, and I never ran anywhere. I simply did not consider myself to be athletic. But my experience of cancer treatment and recovery forced me to challenge a lot of my presuppositions about myself. I discovered that I possessed greater strength and emotional stamina than I ever imagined. And I realised that my negative self image had been seriously limiting my potential.

So, even as the chemo had been reducing my physical stamina, it was also like an incubator for a new me. It forced me to raise my game, just to stay in the game. Sometimes being held back is precisely what we need in order to ultimately be propelled forwards. It's like the Red Queen says in Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking-Glass: "It takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place." Like running on a treadmill. Imagine what happens when the treadmill stops, but you don't. You start moving forwards… fast.

And since the chemo, that's exactly what I had been doing. Moving forwards fast. But the looming possibility of a return to chemo threatened to bring my journey to an abrupt halt.

This uncertainty could have cast a cloud over my run, but that's not how it turned it. In fact, the scan served to heighten the intensity of my experience on the big day. Since my future was clouded, and all of my past year had led up to this point, it caused me to focus entirely upon the day itself. To reside in the moment. The experience was all the more vivid, intense and exhilarating as a result.

As it turns out, the scan results delivered good news. And upon reflection, I realised that I was glad the scan had coincided with the half marathon. It made me realise that I had never left the Red Queen's treadmill, and I never will. We're all on that treadmill - it's just life. Sometimes it's going forwards, sometimes backwards, sometimes stationary. That is outside of our control. All that we can do is to keep running.

Let go of the past,

Cancer Research UK has published a story about my experience with cancer, and how running has helped me, on their website.

If you are a writer, you write.
If you are a runner, you run.
If you are happy, you smile.

If you write, you are a writer.
If you run, you are a runner.
If you smile, you are happy.

If you want to be a writer, write.
If you want to be a runner, run.
If you want to be happy, smile.

It really is that simple. We can't control our thoughts, but we can control our behaviour. And our behaviour exerts a powerful influence on our feelings over time. If I've learned anything over the past two years, it is this: if you seek true happiness, then smile. It is as simple as that.

You are what you do.

I remember my first sip of whisky, and the intense feeling of disappointment I experienced when I discovered that this was what all the fuss had been about. I had expected it to be smooth, sweet and soothing. But it tasted dry, bitter and acrid. Not what I had expecting at all.

Life is not like a bowl of cherries. And nor should it be. It is not always attractive and sweet. Its pleasures are not always immediately accessible to grasp. Sometimes things don't go the way we plan, or the way we might have hoped.

I certainly hadn't been hoping for cancer. But the experience of treatment and recovery added a new layer of depth, meaning and intensity to my life that I am profoundly grateful for.

I remember one day when I came back from hospital, having heard that the chemo wasn't working, my tumours were getting larger, and that I might need a stronger treatment. It was the moment when I first realised exactly how serious my situation was, and I started to anticipate my own death. I sat down on my bed and wept. My partner rushed home from work, and held me. That moment sticks in my mind intensely, to this day. And whilst, in one sense, it was one of the lowest points in my life, I also cherish that memory. It brings tears to my eyes now, just remembering it - but they are not tears of sadness.

Whisky is a complex blend of flavours, some bitter and some sweet. It is this rich combination of accents that come together to produce a warm, rounded harmony. You can't enjoy whisky without its bitter notes, any more than you can enjoy life if you attempt to overlook adversity: the setbacks, challenges, moments of despair and loss.

We can't control what will happen to us. We need to let go of our expectations, and experience our life for what it is, finding the meaning in each moment as we go. I truly believe that the secret to happiness lies in learning to savour our lives like a glass of fine whisky - embracing the bitter notes along with the sweet - and recognising the exquisite perfection of our life as it unfolds. One sip at a time.

When we think of hypnotism, it usually conjures the image of a stage hypnotist, or a 19th century therapist, mesmerizing his patient, by swinging a watch on a chain. But in reality, hypnotism is far more commonplace, and far less dramatic. Consciously or otherwise, we're all hypnotizing each other, all the time, influencing each other's behavior, for better or worse.

Hypnotism is concerned with suggestion. In all forms of communication, we routinely embed multiple layers of meaning. For example, if I say "I'm fine," whilst frowning, I've simultaneously communicated two seemingly contradictory messages. It's down to you, the person with whom I'm communicating, to reconcile them. Sometimes this will be done consciously - you might notice the frown, and realize that I may not be fine. But on other occasions, you may become aware of the frown without consciously thinking about it. As a result, the frown may affect your behavior without you even realizing it. Or in other words, you may be hypnotized by a simple facial expression.

For example, a friend of mine who had been going through a tough time, was planning to go on a vacation to get away from it all. However, when a well meaning person told him that "he could not take a vacation from himself," this advice gave him pause for thought.

The statement is really just a tautology. To say you can't take a vacation from yourself is really nothing more than saying that you will always be you. So what's the underlying meaning in this statement? Simply this: if you're miserable now, you'll be miserable on your vacation as well. What this advices does is to embed a tenuous premise on top of an unchallengeable statement. Of course, you will always be you, but this does not mean that you can't change your mental state. The premise of the statement deliberately frames the situation into one where change is not possible, and as such, it is disempowering. If the person who said it intended to be well meaning, then you would have to question their underlying, perhaps subconscious, motivations.

What is absolutely key in these situations is to consciously process this type of statement, and to identify the embedded command that is piggybacking on the message, in order to ensure that we don't unwittingly allow ourselves to be programmed in this way. For if we accept other people's framing of our situation, we will begin to limit the scope of what we believe to be possible. As a result, an initial positive idea - like going on a vacation in order to get away from it all - becomes doomed to failure, because we unconsciously accept that we will not be able to change our own frame of mind.

This fact was brought home to me personally, when I was awaiting the results of my cancer staging, which would determine what treatment I required. It proved to be a very difficult case for the histopathologists to diagnose, and as a result, I had to wait a long time for the results. When I called the hospital to ask if there was any news, my nurse apologized that there wasn't, and said "you must be out of your mind with worry."

My nurse was a fantastic emotional support to me. Throughout my treatment, she did an excellent job - she was incredibly well informed, and always seemed to know exactly what to do. By saying that I must be out of my mind with worry, she intended to show empathy with my situation - to show that she understood how serious the situation was. However, what she had actually done was to communicate an embedded command - telling me, consciously or otherwise, to worry. This was a rare occasion where my nurse had got it wrong.

Fortunately, I identified the command, processed it and rejected it. The most effective way of dispelling this kind of hypnotic suggestion, when it arises within conversation, is to challenge it within that same conversation, allowing your unconscious mind to be programmed by your own consciously positive words. I explained to my nurse that I wasn't worried, it was actually reassuring that the histopathologists were taking such care in arriving at a diagnosis.

There were many challenging times ahead for me when the diagnosis finally arrived, but I can honestly say that I didn't go "out of my mind with worry" during those weeks before it was confirmed. However well meaning the advise of friends and family may be, we should always take care to look out for these kinds of hypnotic suggestions, and dispel the negative ones, before they can take hold.

It's easy to despair - to lose all hope, and begin to question the meaning of our lives, and the world we live in. There are times when we're challenged to the core of our being. Moments that cause us to question the purpose of our existence. Whether it's bereavement, rejection, conflict, sickness or loneliness, at these moments we suffer, as we struggle to find the strength we need to carry on.

Some turn to religion for this strength. And it can help, if it provides answers and offers hope. But what if, like me, you are not religious? Who can you turn to if you don't have religious faith?

Two years ago, when I was diagnosed with cancer, I was told that I would need chemotherapy. I think that I was more frightened than I had ever been in my life before. But I found the hope and strength I needed to get through it from a place that I never expected.

Chemotherapy is normally pumped into your body through a needle. The nurses hook you up to a machine, and leave you sitting there for an hour or so until you're done. It's poison that they're pumping into your veins. This doesn't hurt at the time, but it can make you feel unwell afterwards, and a week later, just when you're starting to recover, the nurses will pump more of the stuff into you.

And so we all sit together, me and my fellow cancer patients, in a big room, staring at each other as the pumps do their work. We're all in the same boat. You have to be pretty sick to need this stuff. We're all very scared, but you wouldn't know it to look at us there together.

Because in that room - the medical day unit - there is a kind of dignity, camaraderie and compassion that I don't think I've ever experienced in my life before. Everyone is remarkably brave and composed, considering the circumstances, and I realized at the time that we were all drawing this strength from each other. From strangers. All it took was for us to sit together, and take our medicine together. Providing each other with this companionship cost us nothing, but helped us more than I can say.

Looking back, I realize that these are the times and places where we can find hope - regardless of whether we have religious faith. This free and willing exchange of kindness between strangers, in the worst of situations, tells us everything that we need to know about the true value and meaning of the human condition. Hope needn't be a supernatural force from above. It's something we share between us, and the best place to look for it is in the kindness of strangers.

I had the good fortune last night to be introduced to two young engineering graduates from Canada. Fresh from university, their first professional assignment is challenging. They’ve been sent to London to construct an architectural installation in Trafalgar Square. They’re working to a tight deadline, and the techniques involved in the construction are complicated. Nonetheless, these two seem undaunted - they’re incredibly focussed on what they’re doing, and they become completely absorbed in their topic when you ask them to talk about it.

Everything is new to them at the moment - it’s a new job, a new city, new construction techniques, new colleagues. They’re clearly very excited about it all - talking with raised voices, animated and enthused. The experience is all consuming for them, and right now they’re relishing every moment of it.

Their enthusiasm was infectious, and it spread across the entire group I was dining with. We all became engrossed in their engineering challenges, and engaged by their anecdotes about visiting London for the first time.

The encounter reminded me of what it is like to be young - where everything is new and exciting. Where one’s mind is constantly stimulated and engaged by each individual moment of existence. The ability to become completely absorbed in an all consuming task, and to focus upon it entirely, and with passion.

I wanted to give the pair some advice. I wanted to tell them what a unique experience it is was, to be doing things for the first time. To tell them that they should relish every moment of it - to enjoy these times. But I struggled to put this advice into words.

It was then that it struck me that I should not be giving advice to them at all - it was in fact they who were giving me advice. They were leading by example. This kind of youthfulness is not about age - it’s more a state of mind. Every moment of our lives affords a new discovery - an opportunity to take a look at things from a fresh perspective. Wrinkles, grey hair, no hair or whatever, do not limit our ability to be youthful in spirit. Only our minds limit us in this way. If we want to be happy in life, we should watch people who are happy very closely, and learn from their example.

The kind of focus that these two had was what sportsmen and women call being in “the zone,” and psychologists describe as “flow.” It’s the state of mind that we get into when we do our best work - it’s confident, relaxed and playful. We all have our own ways of getting into this mental state, and it becomes easier to achieve with practice. When you’re in the zone, the last thing you need is someone pointing it out to you, and implying that it won’t last for ever - this kind of talk only serves to distract us from the zone, and lose the moment altogether. When you encounter someone who is evidently in the zone, don’t distract them from it - learn from their example instead.

Getting older is a rich and beautiful thing - it means we’ve had the good fortune to experience more of life, and the opportunity to learn from those experiences. But however old we are, we can always learn from those younger than ourselves. We should take care to always regard our world with youthful eyes, experiencing things as if we’ve encountered them for the first time, and allowing ourselves to become entirely absorbed in the moment.

I walk across a beach, leaving footprints in the sand.
Looking at my tracks makes me think that I know where I’m going,
So I don’t look at them.

Ahead of me, there are no tracks,
The virgin sand makes me think that I know where I want to be.
So I don’t look ahead of me.

Beneath my feet, footprints are forming with each step that I take.
My steps become tracks behind me, and they guide my path ahead.
So I tread with care.

A skilled artist never uses an eraser. This is not because they never make mistakes - although they rarely do. The reason that artists don’t use erasers is because drawing is about making marks on paper, and erasing a mark negates that process and interrupts the artist’s flow. If you make a mark that turns out to be wrong, move on and make a better mark. Over time, a picture emerges from the all the marks on the paper - and every mark tells part of the story of the drawing process.

To make great drawings, artists require the courage of their convictions, making each mark with confidence, and visualizing the path that the pen will take. A great mark is confident and flowing - the artist makes generous movements from the upper arm. By freeing their minds of the fear of making mistakes, artists tend to not to make them. With the eraser removed from the artists’ tool box, they no longer search for mistakes to erase. Instead each stroke forms a legitimate part of the whole.

In this sense, tattoos are the ultimate form of drawing. Before I had cancer, I didn’t understand tattoos. I couldn’t understand how anyone would want to indelibly mark their own bodies. Why make an irreversible decision that you may live to regret? I now realize that my thinking was flawed. Each and every decision that we make is irreversible. It’s an indelible mark on time. There are no erasers in life, and we each have a finite amount of time in this world. Like a tattoo artist, we must make our marks with confidence, and embrace the truth in every mark that we make.

“People never change,” or so the saying goes. But that’s not true. People can change, and they do, and it’s happening all the time. Usually, change is for the better, as we learn and grow. Most people need some instigator to bring in the change. It may be something that inspires them, someone who challenges them or an unexpected event that comes from nowhere. It needn’t be something big or scary.

For me, it was cancer. And it changed my life for the better.

I thought I’d been doing pretty well in my life. Running a small web design business. Living with my partner, whom I love very much. A large circle of friends. A beautiful apartment in London. In many ways I was quite content. Better than content, even. It seemed that most things were going my way. But as I look back on those times now, I realise that one important thing was missing. I wasn’t entirely happy.

Some unhappy people say that they worry themselves to sleep at night. I had no trouble sleeping. My problems were during the day. I would worry incessantly, relentlessly and pointlessly. I’d worry about things that had happened, things that might happen, and things that would probably never happen. Somehow I was incapable of keeping anything in perspective. I’d live my life in perpetual fear, trying to anticipate anything that might go wrong. I guess instinctively I was trying to make things better, but in fact I was only making things worse.

Much worse, as it turned out. The excessive levels of stress that I was subjecting my body to were taking their toll, weakening my immune system, and perhaps even giving the cancer cells in my body a chance to take hold. Ironically, all of my anxieties that something was going to go wrong may very well have been a contributing factor to what actually did go wrong. But even I hadn’t anticipated contracting cancer.

In the months that followed, I underwent scans, surgery, chemotherapy, severe allergic relations to my antisickness meds and several very serious skin infections. The team at The Royal Marsden Hospital in London did a fantastic job in taking care of me, and they probably saved my life.

This was the most challenging time of my life. Yet strangely the most challenging aspect was not the surgery, nor the chemotherapy. It was the challenge of changing the way in which I think. I realised when I first received the diagnosis that there was no way I could carry on as I was. Given the amount of stress that I was subjecting myself to when I had nothing to worry about, heaven knows how that would be magnified now that I had something real to worry about. I knew that there could be no chance of recovery for me, unless I learned to stop worrying altogether.

I remember how I used to tell people that I got my best work done in the mornings, because first thing in the morning, my mind was like a tranquil pool, and it was easy for me to stay focussed. But by the end of the day, that tranquil pool had become a turbulent ocean of giant waves. As each event happened during my day, it was like a progressively large rock was thrown into the pool, stirring up the waters even further. What I find amazing now is that I used to tell this story about my pool to friends all the time, and yet I never considered what I should do to remedy the situation.

The cancer diagnosis finally gave me the unavoidable impetus that I needed to start getting my head straight. And in doing so, it put me on a path to a much happier life.

In this blog, I want to share my experiences as I was cured of cancer. I’d like to share some really great thinking that I picked up along the way from some very wise friends, and some remarkable books that have helped me a lot. I’m not a religious person, so my journey was not about scripture or faith. Instead, I discovered a kind of spirituality. To me, spirituality is about finding peace with yourself and the world around you – learning to be happy, and discovering how to share this happiness with others. It needn’t be about anything mystical or unscientific. Looking back, I can see that everything I’ve learned was pretty obvious to begin with – it just makes me realise how often I miss the things that are staring me in the face.

My chemotherapy was successful – and although the doctors still want to monitor me closely, the latest scans show no active cancer in my body. It’s a second chance for me, and I want to make the most of it. The feeling of surviving cancer is both liberating and humbling – and it is amazing how edifying this combination of feelings can be.